


it's hard to find a tender touch (when all you've got is teeth)

by trykynyx



Series: our worlds have never gone outside each other [2]
Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trykynyx/pseuds/trykynyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He leans forward, quick as an adder, likes seeing Will’s broad shoulders flinch. He’s not sure he’s ever clenched his fists as tightly as he does now on the front of Will’s all-American button up. But there’s no fear in Will’s face, not so much as the guardedness that should exist between strangers—and Wolfgang is owed that much, at least. He thinks of the insignia on one of the gleaming shields his uncle has mounted on the wall in the cold stone parlor, the creature’s serpentine body, it’s monstrous claws.</p><p>When he slams his mouth into Will’s, part of his brain is thinking about balancing the scales, reminding this would-be hero about the natural order between dragons and knights in shining armor.</p><p>Another part is pointing out that he’s kissing a starting player on the football team.</p><p>(Wolfgang/Will, high school!au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's hard to find a tender touch (when all you've got is teeth)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger/content warnings for: violence, alcohol, drugs, vomit, food.

Whatever’s happening to them hits with a vengeance just as school lets out for the summer. Will had been invited to Beach Week by some seniors on the team, they were supposed to head for the coast as soon as graduation was over. Instead, he spent the week curled in a ball with the blinds closed and a pillow clasped over his head. The migraine is so bad on the fourth day that he spends most of the afternoon curled around the toilet.

 

He sees things, hears things, that aren’t there—sometimes he feels like he’s someone else entirely. He finally works up the courage to talk to his dad on day six of Migraine Hell. The muted light in the kitchen feels like a chisel in his brain, and he can’t quite bear to look his dad in the eye, so instead he looks at the wallpaper over the stove, notes where the steam has made it peel up and wrinkle.

 

“Dad—” he starts, then licks his lips, tries again. “Dad, I think it’s happening again. Like before, with Sarah.” Michael Gorski freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. Will finally turns his head to look at him. His dad has the same urgent expression he gets when he’s on a bad case, one that needs solving immediately. Will tries not to notice that there’s panic in his eyes, too.

 

“Willy,” he says, “Willy you can’t start with this shit again. You just— You can’t, you hear me, Willy.”

 

* * *

 

He wakes up knowing he’s late for practice. He staggers out of bed, and the hangover hits him like a train. He doesn’t remember getting drunk, can’t figure out why he’d be so stupid—Coach can smell alcohol seeping out of your pores like some kind of bloodhound, likes to make them run suicides until they puke, as penance. He can’t figure out where any of his gear is, keeps tripping because the room is all wrong, that’s not where his bed is, and the door’s supposed to be right there—

 

“Dude, what the fuck,” Felix groans from the nest he’s made on the futon over by the TV.

 

And Wolfgang realizes he wasn’t himself a second a go, like _at all_. He drops onto the bed with a loud thump and huffs. Of course he’s body swapping with a jock. God is such a fucker.

 

* * *

 

It’s not so bad, Wolfgang tells himself, as long as you don’t look at it straight on, don’t try and figure it out. And maybe it isn’t, but three weeks into summer vacation, and he’s exhausted by not looking at this thing that is flipping his life inside out. He needs to get alone-drunk, the kind they show in movies, where you end up slumped face-down in the bar.

 

The place he always goes for that is a joint downtown, run by a guy his uncle knew back in East Berlin; he’s let him and Steiner drink since they were old enough to get there by themselves. It’s a dive—the beer is never cold and there’s never anything good playing on the radio, but no one bothers him. Except, apparently, this one Thursday in June. He walks inside and grits his teeth when he sees the group of loud men watching a grainy soccer game on the old television. He asks for two fingers of bourbon, not interested in the body-drunk of beer tonight. The rubbing alcohol burn of Wild Turkey makes him grimace, but the warm after-glow is worth it.

 

He’s not sure how many rounds in it is that he decides the men roaring over a team that can’t seem to complete a pass to save their lives becomes intolerable. He does know that telling eight grown men to shut the fuck up is something he wouldn’t have done if he’d gone with beer. 

 

* * *

  

Will is putting his dad to bed when he starts to feel it, one of those emotions that doesn’t belong to him. The distinction isn't always that obvious, but this coiled anger in his gut is something that is undeniably foreign. It drives out the dull, guilty ache he’d felt when he came home from Diego’s and found his dad passed out on the couch, living room littered with empty beer cans. The drinking had always been a problem, but it’s been worse since he talked to him a couple of weeks ago. Will grabs his keys when he starts to feel his hands twisting into fists.

 

He doesn’t know where he’s going—no, that’s not right. He _shouldn’t_ know where he’s going, but he heads into the city with a distinct sense of direction. By the time he’s found a place to park—not as close as he would like, but that’s downtown for you—it’s obvious he’s in a neighborhood his dad would call a No Fly Zone. But that tense rage is starting to feel like it’s going to split his skin open, and he knows he’s running out of time. By the time he's out and walking, he can feel that something's already happened.

 

It turns out he doesn’t need whatever psychic fuckery is going on to find out exactly which bar on 17th he’s looking for. Tinted glass doesn’t do much to mute the sounds of a body getting thrown into a table, but it’s certainly louder once he rushes through the door.  Will sees Wolfgang Bogdanow curled on the floor next to what’s left of a few broken glasses, bleeding steadily from a gash above his left eyebrow; he moves instinctively in front of him.

 

“Hey, fellas,” he says brightly to the men who seem very interested in continuing to kick the shit out of the teenager trying to push himself off the sticky tiled floor. He looks plaintively at the bartender, who is watching with apparent disinterest; no help is coming from that direction. “Listen, guys, I’m really sorry, this guy—” and he gestures helplessly at Wolfgang, “I mean, he’s fucking crazy, you know? I’m just—Just gonna get him out of your way.”

 

He backs up carefully, pulls Wolfgang up by the ribs as gently as he can, and nudges him towards the door. He keeps his eyes on the men and follows once Wolfgang has staggered out onto the sidewalk, but they don’t seem interested in taking this outside. Maybe being a Bogdanow saves you from the more serious ass-kickings. Will doesn’t even think when he puts his hand on Wolfgang’s back to guide him down the street back towards his car.

 

“Fuck off, man!” Wolfgang snarls, flailing his arms. “I don’t care if we have some fucking Vulcan mindmeld shit happening, I didn’t ask for your help.”

 

Will grimaces, considers mentioning that he didn’t sign up to be brain bunkmates with a member of a criminal dynasty, either. But Wolfgang is weaving in place, eyes unfocused, and he sighs instead.

 

“Sure, whatever, but you’re wasted. I’ll give you a ride home.”

 

Wolfgang looks like he wants to disagree, ends up grunting an affirmative. Will starts walking, but keeps his head half-turned to make sure Wolfgang doesn’t stagger into traffic. Wolfgang looks at him with an expression that Will once saw on a rabid dog, right before the foaming at the mouth set in. Maybe it’s the Freaky Friday thing that’s happening, but he’s not as nervous about it as he should be.

 

“How do you get served there, anyway? Aren’t they afraid of losing their license, or you know, jail time?” Wolfgang looks at him like he’s an idiot.

 

“No,” he says. “They pay off the cops.”

 

“Ah,” Will tries not to react, but the blue blood in his veins boils. “It’s over here.”

 

The alcohol must be setting in, because Wolfgang is really struggling with bipedal movement by the time they reach the car. Will pulls out his keys, opens the driver’s side door and leans across the seat to unlock Wolfgang’s. After a second of scrabbling, he opens the door from inside, gives it a push so Wolfgang can grab it. Wolfgang all but falls inside, swearing as he pushes himself upright.

 

“This is quite a piece of shit you have here,” he says meanly.

 

“Yeah, well,” Will replies, more worried about whether Wolfgang is going to puke in his car than a pithy comeback. He doesn’t even have a water bottle to offer him.

 

* * *

  

Wolfgang looks at Will quietly fussing next to him and is suddenly, furiously angry. It’s bad enough that this over-grown Boy Scout has some sort of psychic LoJack on him, but now he has to go and look at him like he’s some sort of charity case, a stray dog he picked up on the side of the road. He never asked for a savior, and definitely never dreamed of some square-jawed Abercrombie model dropping out of the sky to rescue him. Monsters don’t need rescuing.

 

He leans forward, quick as an adder, likes seeing Will’s broad shoulders flinch. He’s not sure he’s ever clenched his fists as tightly as he does now on the front of Will’s all-American button up. But there’s no fear in Will’s face, not so much as the guardedness that should exist between strangers—and Wolfgang is owed that much, at least. He thinks of the insignia on one of the gleaming shields his uncle has mounted on the wall in the cold stone parlor, the creature’s serpentine body, it’s monstrous claws.

 

When he slams his mouth into Will’s, part of his brain is thinking about balancing the scales, reminding this would-be hero about the natural order between dragons and knights in shining armor.

 

Another part is pointing out that he’s kissing a starting player on the football team.

 

Will doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even breathe, and it’s not enough. Wolfgang wants absolute surrender, wants this sweet boy with a soft life to cower, to recoil. Hell, he’d even take a punch. So he pushes forward across the bench of the front seat, bracing his right foot on the floor of the car to propel him into the driver’s side, left leg folding up under him, knee slamming into Will’s thigh. He pushes and pulls them together hard enough to bruise.

 

All at once, Will sighs and lets his mouth soften. His hands, which had been lying in his lap, come up to cup Wolfgang’s elbows. If Wolfgang lets out a single ragged breath before taking Will’s lower lip between his own, much softer than before, he chalks it up to muscle memory. He leans and leans, and it’s not so much a kiss now as just trying to breathe Will in—can you suck up goodness the way you shotgun a pull of smoke? Can you drag it into you, soak it up, feel your heart grow three sizes, and just be _better_?

 

And then the fight goes out of him, leaves him hollow. Wolfgang groans and moves his mouth away, but pushes closer. He drags his face back along Will’s cheekbone and down his neck, dropping his head onto Will’s shoulder. His fingers loosen, come to rest on Will’s chest, rising and falling with his carefully measured breaths. With one hand Will clasps the back of Wolfgang’s neck, holds his side with the other, and breathes quietly against his ear. He smells like dryer sheets and grass, makes Wolfgang wonder if maybe you could slay the monster, travel back in time and save the boy.

 

They stay like that for a long time—or, at least it seems that way. Time is funny when you’re slip-sliding your way through other people’s heads. A car alarm goes off somewhere close enough to be startling, and they aren’t in that quiet, grey place where their thoughts are pressed closer together than their bodies.

 

“I should get you home,” Will says into his ear. Wolfgang moves away in one swift motion, back on his side of the car like nothing ever happened.

 

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, you probably should.” Will turns back to the wheel, buckles his seatbelt, and starts the car. They are sitting there for a second, engine idling, before Wolfgang feels that telltale tickle in his brain that precedes thoughts that aren’t his own. He sneers at the schoolboy anxiety and buckles himself in with an exaggerated motion.

 

“Of course, safety first.”

 

Will doesn’t bother to respond. They pull into the road, and Wolfgang is already rolling his eyes at the teen rom-com scene that’s about to unfold. The good boy takes the girl from the wrong side of the tracks home after a disastrous date, all in awkward silence. Jesus, what a freak show. He needn’t have worried. Maybe it’s the fifth of cheap bourbon, or the minor concussion he probably has, but they hadn’t even pulled onto the highway before he’s out cold, face pressed against the coolness of the window.

 

He sleeps the whole way; Will lets him, knows exactly where he’s going. Everyone knows where Sergei Bogdanow lives, has craned their neck to catch a glimpse of the mansion beyond the high tech gate. It’s almost like Wolfgang senses when they pull up to it, wakes with a start.

 

“No,” he groans. “Not here.” Will feels the wrongness of the dark house barely visible at the end of the driveway curling in his gut, and immediately reverses.

 

“Don’t worry,” he says, not bothering to sort out who’s in whose brain. “Don’t worry, we’ll go to Felix’s.” Maybe, when he’s bracing his arm on the back of the bench as he looks out the rearview window, his fingers brush Wolfgang’s shoulder.

 

He drives to Felix’s place like he’s been there a thousand times before, doesn’t bother looking at road names or house numbers. He just _knows_ that the tiny beige single-story is where he feels save, even happy—or where Wolfgang does. Fuck, whatever. Wolfgang hadn’t fallen asleep again, he’s ramrod straight and silent the entire ride. As soon as the car stops, he’s ripping off his seatbelt.

 

“Hey,” Will starts, but Wolfgang is already out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He stalks around the side of the house into the backyard without looking back. Will flexes his fingers on the steering wheel and waits until he feels some of the weight on his chest lighten, knows that it means Wolfgang has silently crawled in through Felix’s window like he has for years. He takes a deep breath and starts to head home. He’ll notice the spot of blood on the shoulder of his shirt when he’s undressing, rub a thumb over it thoughtfully.

 

* * *

  

Will doesn’t hear anything from Wolfgang for over a week. He doesn’t know what he was expecting; this is nothing like shooting a text, and he’s not holding his breath while he waits for a friend request. Still, it feels wrong somehow, to feel him out there—light as a mosquito right before it bites, just out of the corner of his eye—and not be able to reach him. It feels bizarrely like rejection.

 

But on the ninth day he gets to his car after practice, and finds the doors unlocked. Which isn’t a thing Will does—you know, just cop’s kid things. He looks up at the sky and prays that his wallet is where he left it before getting in. And there it is, underneath the towel he left in the middle of the front seat. That’s not what catches his attention: there’s a brown paper bag sitting upright on the passenger’s side of the seat that hadn’t been there when he’d gotten out of the car that morning.

 

He grabs it, pulls out the bottle inside. He knows it’s liquor, but he can’t tell what kind exactly—the label is written in German. He slides it under the seat with a grin.


End file.
